


Unremarkable

by narsus



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-23
Updated: 2010-11-23
Packaged: 2017-10-13 08:26:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/135205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/narsus/pseuds/narsus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s not that Mycroft minds: he merely views the situation with dispassionate curiosity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unremarkable

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to the BBC, Mark Gatiss & Steven Moffat, and obviously in the genesis of it all, to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

Mycroft hates showering at Baker Street. The water takes too long to heat up and he always finds himself shivering at the other end of the bathtub, avoiding the cold water, for much too long. He hates the cracked old tile, the far too slippery bathtub, even the cheap shower curtain. It’s all a mess, a cheap mass of reproduced and repurposed nothing. This most certainly isn’t the style to which he has grown accustomed. Nor is this really the way he’d pictured any portion of his life. He doesn’t like the shower any more than he likes the bathroom as a whole, he doesn’t like the little bathroom shelf crammed full of his brother’s facial products, doesn’t like the forlorn towels hanging off the radiator, most certainly doesn’t like the fact that John’s toiletries are wedged into a tiny space when he’s paying half the rent.

Sherlock is obliviously obnoxious plenty of the time but in domestic arrangements even more so. Mycroft recalls their brief stint of living together and is thankful that they’d never had to share a bathroom. Of course Sherlock had still stolen his towels, but at least he’d left the rest alone, if only because there weren’t any fancy anti-aging, anti-wrinkle, anti-scaring lotions on Mycroft’s shelf, and instead, just a flannel and a pot of cold cream. Of course he’d got into Mycroft’s aftershave but even then there hadn’t been much to choose from, most of it consisting of presents from other people that remained neglected in their packaging. Much like John, Mycroft doesn’t really have anything that could be described as a beauty regime. He applies hand cream frequently and, when he remembers, uses balm on his lips but even that’s pragmatic. Mycroft’s skin dries easily and he hates the feeling of tightness across his hands: similarly his lips will dry to the point of splitting in cold weather so he finds it useful to pre-empt that if he can.

He is not vain when it really comes down to it. His vanity, such as it is, comes in the form of professional pride. He is efficient, careful at reading interpersonal situations, capable of giving his audience the required prompts inoffensively. Social engagements tire him completely as a result. He always has to be ‘on form’, always ready with a careful smile or a whispered word. He pries secrets from powerful men who, after the fact, would confess that it was a relief to unburden themselves. He listens carefully to the women who stand behind those powerful men and heeds their advice. He watches as power, prestige and contempt grow, organically, out of trust and ability. Sometimes he even gives gentle advice, sometimes he makes cruel asides under his breath, sometimes he even, genuinely, smiles. Mostly, he plays his part, his role in the game.

There are men that he’d call his superiors, if it ever came to it, just as there are those he would term subordinates. For the most part he doesn’t use those sorts of terms. He asks politely for a favour and listens attentively when he’s asked for one in return. It works, which, in the end, is all that matters. He occupies a minor position in the civil service, he peppers his social chitchat, with appropriate parties, with ludicrous anecdotes that illustrate Sherlock’s unsuitability for a governmental position, and turns his head dismissively whenever anybody suggests reenlisting John Watson. Vast swathes of the upper echelons think that Sherlock is unstable and that John is dull as a result, which suits everyone entirely. Of course, Mycroft knows full well that above those few tiers there are those who recognise his deception for what it is. At that level they see clearly that he is merely protecting his brother, perhaps even higher than that, so he likes to think, Her Britannic Majesty may even be choosing to indulge a former special commissioned officer.

Mycroft doesn’t think about John’s locked service record often. Of course it’s indicative that even someone with his security clearance can’t get a look at it, but then so is the fact that John still carries a gun that is regularly serviced and that he never seems to lack for ammo. John’s name still comes up on the roster of a division the name of which Mycroft can’t seem to uncover, his sister’s name is listed, along with an extortionate commission rate, for any public relations campaigns she might be called in to consult on, even a distant cousin of his has been given a prestigious overseas commission. John Watson is, in his own way, remarkable. In ways that he was long before Sherlock or Mycroft came along.

John Watson’s bathroom on the other hand is unremarkable in the extreme. Standing under the now hot water, Mycroft looks around again. Nothing has changed, everything remains the same, dull, inexpensive, functional tat. From the staging it would be easy to expect little from the occupants of this flat. Sherlock is after all eccentric but perfectly functional as a member of society, and John is deliberately unremarkable in his shadow. John isn’t given to rapid-fire deductions or the quiet menace of government offices. He is a calm, rational man with a few injuries, physical and mental, who smiles without artifice and is generally kind. He is so unremarkable that his service record ought to be in the public domain, not locked behind layers of security that even Mycroft, with his penchant for technological security games, can’t break through.

The bathroom door opens and Mycroft’s eyes narrow. John smiles at him, an expression lacking in any artifice as he locks the door behind him. Mycroft turns away and studies the cracked title again as John removes what little clothing he’s put on for the journey to bedroom to bathroom. What comes next is as obvious as it is inevitable. Mycroft will brace himself against the wall, under the flow of the water, bent forward, hands against the tile and John will assert his dominance, flavoured with a touch of the cruelty that explains why his name is still on a classified file.

It’s not that Mycroft minds exactly. He enjoys the sensation, the attention, the extra leverage the association allows him in certain circles. It’s just that sometimes he wonders if any of it is actually real, if John’s gentle words after the fact are all a lie. Not that it will make a difference if they are, if this is all a fabrication for some further purpose. He’s prepared to comply anyway, because to do otherwise might prove... inconvenient. Still, it might be nice to have some certainty in regard to proceedings.


End file.
